


Beacon Hills, California, Population 30.000

by yogurtgun



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Gen, M/M, Polish Mythology, Protective Derek, Slavic mythology, Stiles Stilinski is a God
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 18:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16247822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/pseuds/yogurtgun
Summary: After Las Vegas, Shadow drives Mr. Wednesday to California.





	Beacon Hills, California, Population 30.000

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeated.

Shadow and Wednesday leave Las Vegas in a 2004 Subaru Forester at ten minutes past eight in the evening. They’re supposed to go to the airport, but Wednesday changes his mind at the last minute. Instead, they take a beltway, turn right and follow road 95 up north, past Indian Springs. 

It steadily grows darker as they drive. It’s nearing midnight when they arrive in Betty town. Wednesday, who’s been laying in the back seat of the Subaru, leaps out of the car the moment Shadow has it parked in the parking lot of a motel. 

A big sign shows a play on words, the motel called “Ale-inn” and a humanoid shaped alien depicted next to it. Shadow supposes that statistically someone has to find that funny.

“You hungry, Shadow?” Wednesday asks after his joints have stopped popping. 

“Yes,” Shadow answers.

Betty town is really a stretch of dirt with a road going through it. Since there’s a road, people had decided to inhabit it, and since there were people, it became a town. However, as much as Shadow can see, all of the houses are dilapidated, or damaged, and all of them are old. 

The summers must be insufferable, he thinks as he bites into his hamburger. They couldn’t find a diner so they bought some fast food. The burger is fine though Shadow feels as if he isn’t eating anything at all despite its size.

“The problem with American food,” Wednesday starts around a mouthful of ground pork, with a napkin pressed to his mouth, “is that it’s all artificial crap. You eat and eat, and still feel hungry. Eventually you bloat up into a balloon, and you’re still hungry.”

Shadow thinks Wednesday eats his hamburger with as much gusto as if it were gourmet steak, irregardless of his own words.

After their meal is over, they drive back to the motel and check in. The interior is surprisingly normal for the gimmick they’re trying to pull. 

The girl at the reception looks tired, blond and too fair to live in the desert. She checks them in and hands them their keys. Wednesday, as always, flirts, but in a more contained fashion. 

Before Shadow can get into his room he says, “Rest up tonight. Tomorrow we’re going to California.”

Shadow simply replies, “Good night.”

The interior of the room is also normal, Shadow realizes with disappointment. He expected a round bed and inexplicable additions to the room like paintings of cow abductions, or plaques of UFO sightings. He’s satisfied with normal, it’s just that advertising didn’t meet his expectations. 

Shadow rests his head on a perfectly rectangular pillow with a white pillowcase and sleeps.

In the morning, Wednesday and he eat quickly and leave Betty town early. They take the road to the border, and show their IDs to the border police. They’re let in without trouble.

Shadow drives through the Death Valley National Park all the way to Panamint Springs. Taking 190, they continue up, past Keeler. They’re constantly surrounded by trees, peaks of mountains making themselves known only from time to time whilst their glimmering reflections shine in lake water each time the trees clear enough to announce their presence. It’s around one in the afternoon when they pass a sign announcing they’re in Beacon Hills. 

As they drive, Wednesday starts talking. 

“The fellow we’re going to see is in need of some convincing,” he says, as if continuing an old conversation. “War gods usually smell a battle out, but this one has just awakened.”

“Is he a new god?” Shadow asks. 

“No, he’s from the same house as Chernobog. But he died a few years back, and has just returned to living,” Wednesday explains and refuses to talk further.

The forests don’t clear, not until the very last moment where concrete takes over from tree roots. Shadow drives past a high school, church, a couple coffee shops. 

“We’re going to the preserve, but we need to make a stop first. Park here,” Wednesday says. Shadow parks behind a store and follows Wednesday out of the car, and into the bustling crowd of a Farmer’s Market. 

Wednesday walks slowly, observing the fruit laid out on display, the golden honey and honeycomb, the poultices and remedies all claiming they're natural, preservative and additive free. Wednesday ignores them and head to the flower stall. A small, dark haired woman owns it, and her dark eyes brighten when she notices Wednesday and Shadow. 

“My dear I must ask, do you have any irises?” Wednesday asks the woman. 

She’s dressed, Shadow thinks privately, like a mom. He probably shouldn’t know what that is, considering his had always worn formal clothes and Laura’s mother never gave in to the jean trend, but he would recognize the washed out jeans and plaid shirt combination anywhere. 

“Of course,” she replies. 

She helps Wednesday pick the prettiest, fullest blooming ones, purple at the edges and yellow at the center. The five flowers are wrapped in soft brown paper and handed to Wednesday, who pays for them with a twenty. There are no tricks this time. He pays for them honesty and receives change from the woman who thanks them, and waves them off. 

“Are we paying a visit to a woman first?” Shadow asks, curious. He expects Wednesday to not reply, or to shoots him down. Instead, the man only laughs. 

They continue their promenade until they reach another stall selling yellow apples. Wednesday picks out three, puts them in a paper bag, and pays. 

“Did you want anything?” he asks, his red beard flashing in the brightness of the California sun. 

“No,” Shadow replies. 

Nodding, Wednesday walks back to the car and folds himself gently into the passenger seat, careful of his gains.

He instructs Shadow which road to take. Once they get off road into the preserve, he tells Shadow in which direction to drive. There’s a narrow beaten path where other vehicles have driven and Shadow follows it into the forests. The trees around them grow taller and older, the leafstrown earth crackling underneath the wheels of the Subaru.

Shadow thinks he sees a house, but it looks old and burnt. After driving a bit longer, it turns out to be true; he did see a house. However, the house that comes into view is completely intact and newly remodeled. 

It’s a three story brick mansion, large enough for two families to live in comfortably without ever meeting each other. It rests between two oaks, painted a beige-brown shade of the foliage, with deep pine-green colored doors. 

Three cars are parked in front of it: an old baby blue Jeep that has seen better days, a sleek black Camaro, and a bullet-grey Porsche. 

“Park here,” Wednesday tells him. Shadow stops the car and parks it behind the other vehicles. 

He waits for Wednesday to instruct him in how to behave but he remains mum so Shadow exits the car, goes around it, and opens the passenger side door. Shadow takes the gifts from Wednesday as the man unfolds himself from the car, but they’re quickly taken away from him once Wednesday has smoothed down his navy blue suit.

He looks Shadow over with a keen brown eye, hums, and walks ahead of him. Shadow admires the Camaro as he passes it, but his attention doesn’t linger. It’s firmly set on Wednesday who knocks thrice on the doors and waits. 

There’s a still sort of quietness that descends upon the forest, and upon the house. There’s no hum of electricity, no droning of background TV or stereo, no pitter-patter of feet. All of the windows are covered with opaque white curtains. 

Shadow shifts from one foot to the others, making the wood underneath his feet creek. A soft, chilly wind sweeps through the trees, rustling the dried leaves that have yet to fall from their branches. Finally, the doors opens with a soft click of the latch. 

At first, Shadow can barely see who opened the door. Rather than the outside light seeping into the home and revealing their to-be host, it’s as if the light itself gets sucked into the house and then unceremoniously smothered.

Shadow blinks once, twice, and the illusion passes. Instead of darkness, now a tall man stands in front of them, holding the doors barely ajar. He has a rough expression on his face, one that Shadow recognizes from prison. His hair is black and there’s an artful stubble over his chin, but his cheeks are gaunt and his nose is hooked, his cheekbones evident. He’s in a burgundy shirt that does nothing to hide his musculature. 

He looks like that kind of ‘Don’t fuck with me’, Shadow thinks, that goes with life sentences and solitary confinement. Shadow had avoided those type of people in prison as much as he could.

“Good day,” Wednesday says pleasantly enough. 

The man appraises them with his pale green eyes. First he surveys Wednesday, eyes stopping at the gifts in his hands, then he looks at Shadow and stares long enough to make Shadow deeply uncomfortable. Shadow doesn’t feel weighed and judged, he feels as if he’s being sentenced from a spectrum of light maiming to outright murder. However, the moment breaks and the man swings the doors wide open. 

“He’s in the kitchen,” the man says and steps to the side to let them pass. 

Shadow doesn’t feel welcomed by this gesture. He doesn’t like anyone standing behind him, and now he’s forced to tolerate a presence of someone who, he feels like, could tear him apart at any moment. He has no other choice. The hairs on the back of his neck bristle and his skin turns to gooseflesh as he passes the threshold.

The house inside is indeed dark. No lights are on, so the hallway that leads through the house is shrouded in shadows. They pass the living room that’s bathed in golden sunlight, and a few other rooms whose doors are closed. 

They pass a staircase that leads up into more darkness, and Shadow feels as if he’s entered a cavern, or a beast’s maw until they step into the kitchen. 

The first thing Shadow notices, besides the size of the room and the large twelve seater dining table, is the man standing in front of a big kitchen stove, cooking. He’s just added something to the large pot on one of the burners while the oven shines with artificial light, signaling it’s turned on. 

He puts down the chef knife and wipes his hands with a kitchen towel.

The man turns around and Shadow is stricken by how young he looks. He can’t be anywhere near thirty. He looks like a student, like he’s just out of his boyhood. Dark hair is matched with dark eyes, but if the man at the doors had been hard, then this boy is all softness and smoothed edges. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” the boy says with some humor in his voice. 

“Thank you for having us,” Wednesday replies, putting the flowers and the apples on the kitchen island. 

The boy comes around to greet Wednesday properly, shaking Wednesday’s hands, then kissing his cheeks in tandem thrice. He looks at the gifts, and snorts at the flowers, before he opens the paper bag and takes out the golden apples. 

“You remember,” the boy says to Wednesday, but he might as well have said it to the room at large. 

“Of course, it’s tradition,” Wednesday replies. 

His smile is stuck on his face, like that of a fox. 

He sets the apples down on the countertop while he takes the irises, finds a vase and fills it with water, before arranging them until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t offer them to sit, or offer them to eat or drink. Shadow doesn’t think he would notice this if he’d not been welcomed by Zoryas back in Chicago.

“You’re a second god who has visited me since I awakened,” the boy says, letting go of the harassed flowers. “The first one wanted something. I think you want something as well.”

Unlike Chernobog or Zoryas, the boy has no accent. Rather, he has a perfectly crisp Californian enunciation. It feels out of place with the image of an old god Shadow had crafted within his mind. False advertising, Shadow thinks. 

“I just need a sliver of your time,” Wednesday replies. “I have some information that will be pertinent to you.”

The boy considers Wednesday for a moment. Shadow can suspect what kinds of thoughts might pass the boy’s head, considering Wednesday’s sudden arrival. In a frighteningly similar fashion to the man who opened the doors, the boy scans both Wednesday and Shadow. The wait is not long this time either. The boy relaxes his shoulders and nods. 

“You’re guests, you have to stay for lunch,” he says, as if the first thing wasn’t clear before, and as if the second thing was called into question.

Finally, he extends his hand towards Shadow and acknowledges his presence for the first time since he entered the kitchen. “I’m Perun,” he says, “But these days I go by Stiles.”

Shadow shakes his hand. “I’m Shadow.”

“Whose Shadow?” Stiles asks him, and it doesn’t appear to be a joke. 

Shadow, puzzled by the question, simply replies, “Just Shadow.”

This seems to amuse Stiles. He turns to Wednesday and says, “What can I get you? We have schnapps, sake, a nice bottle of red?”

“I’m always partial to wine,” Wednesday replies. 

Stiles nods and turns to the man who has been standing at the doors the whole time, watching and waiting, arms crossed over his chest. Shadow had forgotten he’d been there at all, which turns his skin to gooseflesh once more.

Stiles presses his hand over the other man’s and says, “Shadow, why doesn’t Derek show you where we keep the fine china?”

A look passes between Stiles and Derek; there’s a question asked and an answer given with no words necessary. Finally, the man called Derek nods in agreement. He looks up at Shadow and says, “Come with me.”

Shadow would rather not but when he looks at Wednesday the man just waves him off. 

Resigned, Shadow follows Derek out into the dark hallway. They go into one of the closed rooms that turns out to be the pantry. It’s narrow but the shelves are as tall as the walls, and Shadow spies a cellar door tucked away in the far left corner.

As all pantries go, this one is filled with canned food, snacks, dried smoked meat and cheese, fruit and vegetables. On the top shelves are bottles of hard liquor, some brand names but most without a label. 

Shadow watches Derek grab a suitcase from one of the shelves. He hands it to Shadow before looking through large boxes that clutter the floor. They’re not labeled, but Derek still recognizes the one he’s looking for and picks it up. He also finds a nice tablecloth and then motions with his head that they are done and should return back to the kitchen. 

Wednesday and Stiles have not migrated far. Wednesday has found a chair for himself somewhere, and sits at the kitchen island, draining a glass of red. The bottle sits on the granite countertop, aerating.

“You’ve felt the storm,” he is saying to Stiles, as if it’s an argument point. 

“I did,” Stiles admits calmly. 

“They’ve already struck first, they’ve drawn first blood,” Wednesday says. “They want to kill us, to drain us, they will make us forgotten.”

 

The boy nods along calmly as he stirs something in the large pot on the stove. 

Wednesday stays relaxed, voice soft and even, void of emotions. He continues, “I know you care little for our struggle, you weren’t there when I called the meeting. Kali was there, and someone you might know -- Chernobog.”

Shadow pays attention to dressing the table. He spreads the tablecloth and centers it. He pops the lids of the box and sees inside white porcelain plates bordered with gold. He sets the plates for all twelve seats while Derek inspects the silverware from the suitcase, and adds it to the table. Interestingly, they don’t set glasses.

Wednesday is still talking to the boy, who stirs and occasionally bends to look at the oven. It’s nothing that Shadow hasn’t heard before, its the tone that is strange. 

“Whatever you decide, this battle will happen,” Wednesday says, not in a voice of a telemarketer, but in the voice of a resigned friend. “It’s not in our nature to band together but we will. We might lose.”

That has Stiles’ attention. He looks at Wednesday for the first time, his eyes a golden color under the strong kitchen lights. 

“We might lose,” Wednesday repeats. “One side has to. I want that to be their side. Because if we do lose, they will not stop just at killing us. They will find the other old ones, and they won’t think twice before striking.”

Wednesday stops and looks at Stiles. Reading something from his face he says, “Oh, my friend, did you really think they would leave you well alone? If we were tolerant, then the fledglings are anything but. They’re new, and hungry and crave what we have.”

Wednesday has re-filed his glass twice by now, and grows none redder for it. Stiles doesn’t respond until the timer on the oven dings, indicating that the food is done. He turns the burner off and cracks the oven doors. Steam exits in a hurry.

“Svidar,” Stiles says, the name heavy on his tongue. “I am a war god, but I am also a human.”

The silence is deafening. Shadow glances at Derek. The man observes the scene with an unfitting sort of serenity, as if he’s waiting for something to set him off. Shadow knows the feeling crawling under his skin -- it’s the quietness before a prison riot, the potential for violence that is soon to come. 

“Well, I was supposed to be human. Actually, I’m quite attached to the sentiment.” Stiles leans against the countertop, eyes set on Wednesday. He isn’t smiling. 

“However, my mother died, and as such things go, I was human and then I wasn’t. I shouldn’t have had to become a god until I was quite dead, and my life force was replaced with what sustains both of us now.”

“How did you awaken?” Shadow asks. He realities it isn’t his place, but Stiles seems pleased that someone asked. 

“I was possessed by an ancient fox spirit,” he explains. “It showed me everything.”

“That is besides the point,” Wednesday interjects. 

“Yup,” Stiles replies. “However, I am still owed a lifetime, and I am unwilling to get into any of this god business stuff until it’s my time.”

“You are one of us,” Wednesday presses. 

“And you’re fighting evolution. Of course things would change, the mankind is changing. Of course the new ones will try to destroy the old, there’s only so much belief to go around,” Stiles says and shrugs. “I’m not afraid of death, I’ve been there and I’ve done it. And if I am forgotten?”

Stiles shrugs again. “It’s inevitable. You can either drag it out or you can go on your own terms.”

“And if they come here? Kill you, or kill your beasts? What then?” Wednesday asks. 

Stiles smiles and it doesn’t reach his eyes. Shadow sees an image of a young man in front of him, pointed chin and flashing golden eyes observing Wednesday, and he sees thunder incarnate and bottled into a humanoid shape, and he sees a great eagle ready for a dive.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Stiles finally says and the images in front of Shadow’s eyes disappear. 

The young man opens the oven doors the rest of the way, and lifts out of the oven what looks like a whole pig leg. The skin is brown from roasting with beer, and the smells that reach Shadow are appetizing in their simplicity; just garlic and rosemary. It looks delicious. Shadow suddenly can’t remember the last time he ate. 

Derek approaches without any obvious signal and takes the whole pan into his hands and carries it to the table. He sets it on top of a cutting board in the middle of the table. At the bottom of the pan are potatoes roasted in pig fat. Derek sets down the pot on another cutting board, which turns out to be some kind of soup. 

Stiles slices two large black breads and arranges them into two wicker bread baskets. He opens the large double-sided fridge, and brings out a pre-made salad in a large bowl and a few smaller glass dishes filled with cheese, sour cream, and some kind of reddish sauce. He and Derek carry all of that to the table.

“Dinner is ready,” Stiles announces. “Now, please, take a seat.”

Wednesday, who has been quiet all the while, stands, with his glass in hand, and sits at the honored place at the head of the table. Shadow sits right of him, as instructed by Wednesday’s nod, and Derek sits at the same place on the other side of the table.

Stiles carries the bottle of red to the table and puts it in front of Wednesday than turns to Shadow. “Do you want to drink anything? We also have beer if you prefer that.”

“Sure,” Shadow replies. 

Stiles pours him a glass of strong dark beer from a bottle with an unpronounceable label that is also set on the table in front of him. Before Shadow can take a sip, he hears soft creaking above him that gets quieter as it nears the staircase. Then, a loud stampede of feet descending the wooden stairs quickly fills the air, as if making up for all the quietness. The noise turns into a quick patter of bare feet over the stone floor.

First to come into the room is a young man with jet black hair and an easy smile. He says hello, then takes a seat at the table, opposite Derek. A black boy goes next, nodding at everyone, than a tall boy with curly hair and pale eyes, followed by a blonde girl with glaring red lipstick and a vicious smile. A tiny red-headed girl goes in with another blue-eyed boy; they all take seats. The last two chairs are filled by a tall girl with cropped brown hair, and another girl with a cheeky smile and a twinkle in her black eyes. 

Stiles is the last one to take his seat, opposite Wednesday. Once he sits, it feels as if the whole table relaxes. Shadow finally takes a drag out of his beer. 

“Please,” Stiles says and points to the food.

Wednesday stands unprompted and ladles a bowl of soup for himself then for Shadow. Everybody else serves themselves except Stiles. Derek pours for him, probably out of tradition or respect. 

Shadow expects this to be an awkward dinner, quiet and stifling, the silence just daring someone to slurp out of their spoon. He is mistaken. The moment they are able to eat, the young men and women attack the food viciously with no care or regard for manners. Shadow likes that. He’s always enjoyed the honesty of that kind of meal. 

Wednesday himself doesn’t eat much different, now that Shadow thinks about it. The only ones who are contained in any way are Stiles, who looks at the table with a quirk to his lips, amused to no end, and Derek who observes everyone with a look of distaste as if to say ‘I taught you better than this’. Shadow supposes if he knew what normal parents looked like, this would be it. 

The soup is rust-colored, with cabbage and sausage. Shadow’s not eaten anything like it, but it tastes good with the black bread. The whole pot is gone within minutes. Derek stands to carve the pig leg. He serves Wednesday and Shadow first, before Stiles and himself. The rest goes to the other men and women who leave nothing but bones behind. 

The red sauce in one of the little glass bowls turns out to be vegetable spread and the cheese in another looks homemade. Shadow doesn’t think he can eat as much as he does. The hollowness he’d felt in the pit of his stomach eating hamburger before, is filled quickly with the food Stiles has prepared.

Shadow notes, as he eats the last bits of the phenomenal piece of pork he had been given, that despite the haste in their eating, there’s not been a drop of grease spilled onto the pristine white tablecloth. 

Although he had made conversation at the table during their meal with Chernobog and Zoryas, this time Wednesday doesn’t speak. Instead, he eats until the end of the meal. Finally, when his plate is clean, he sits back. 

Stiles says, “If you’ve finished, we should move to the living room.”

He and Wednesday shuffle out of the kitchen. Shadow follows after them, Derek again at his back. He’s instructed to take a seat on one of the large couches and gets offered another beer. He accepts it, while Wednesday accepts a Jack Daniels. 

Shadow can hear the clattering of dishes from the kitchen, the last scrapes of silverware against undoubtedly rarely used porcelain, and the running of the kitchen tap. Shadow gets distracted by the way that Derek stands behind Stiles that’s seated on the armchair, as if he can’t relax with intruders in his home. 

“Was that a kitsune I saw at your dining table?” Wednesday asks, conversationally. 

“A new addition to the pack,” Stiles replies proudly. 

Stiles’ smile falls as he looks at his own glass of Jack. He swirls the amber liquid around, but doesn’t drink. 

“You know, not all of the new gods are bad,” Stiles says with a resigned sigh. 

“But all of them will fight,” Wednesday replies. 

Stiles presses his lips tightly together, eyes boring holes inside the glass. At that moment, to Shadow he appears both like a teenager, unsure with himself and of what to do with his hands as he fidgets with his glass, and like an old man, starting to grey, with crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes. 

Shadow feels for him. It’s the first time he’s met a god that wasn’t thinking about himself and his own death. Shadow has seen his family, and what Stiles wishes to protect. 

“I suppose you did manage to convince Chernobog,” Stiles says as if trying to convince himself in turn. He looks at Shadow, as if trying to piece his story just from his face. He looks at Wednesday and his eyes glimmer in the sunlight. “I am owed a lifetime,” he insists to Wednesday.

“You will have a lifetime, and many more, once we win the battle,” Wednesday reassures him. 

“Is that a promise?” Stiles asks sharply.

Wednesday smiles at him in that sort of way that doesn’t mean anything, like someone hooked the corners of his mouth and tugged up.

“Svidar, swear it,” Stiles says, growing frighteningly serious. His voice booms through the house, as if it weren’t coming from a slightly larger living room but from an acoustic theater.

“Fine,” Wednesday replies. “I promise that, if the battle ends with you alive, you will have an additional lifetime. Do we have a deal?”

Stiles’ thin lips press together to form a thin line but he still replies, “Deal.”

There’s a loud crack of thunder somewhere in the distance. When gods make deals, there’s no need for mead, thrice drunk. When gods make deals with other gods, it’s implied that they swear by what connects them, their godhood, their old names, their whole being. There’s no need for a handshake, no need for signed papers, no need to drink together out of the same cup. That’s why gods tend to avoid each other in the new age, lest they make a mistake of swearing something they cannot, or indeed will not, do.

Stiles leans into the backrest and looks up at the man standing behind him. “What do you say big guy? Ready for another battle?”

Derek looks at Stiles for a moment then shrugs. “If you go, I’ll go.”

He leans, and for a moment it appears as if he’s going to kiss Stiles. But then he plucks the glass out of the god’s hands and downs the whiskey in one go. He hands the glass back to Stiles, who looks a little shocked and a little red until a smile warms his lips once more. 

“Well, there you have it,” Stiles says to Wednesday. “Now, does anybody want coffee?”

Shadow accept a cup of coffee, and after he drinks it Wednesday announces they will be leaving. Stiles and Derek walk them out of the house, like all proper hosts should. Wednesday moves ahead towards the car but Stiles stops Shadow with a hand around his bicep.

“I hope,” he says in that way gods tend to speak when cursing and blessing people, “that you will find your sun soon.” 

They watch from the open doors as Wednesday and Shadow climb into their car. Shadow can see Stiles waving in his rear-view mirror when he turns the car around, and drives out of the preserve using the same path that had brought him to the god’s house.

“We’re leaving Beacon Hills, immediately,” Wednesday says. “Take the next right, we’re going to the nearest airport.”

Shadow doesn’t argue. Mainly, because he sees shapes bounding through the trees around them, black and large. He catches sight of glowing yellows eyes as the golden light fades above them. Shadow notices it’s already past five. 

It’s a good thing they went before the bewitching hour too, because they would have had much bigger trouble getting out of the town than they had getting into it. 

The silhouettes follow them all the way to the town border, their shapes less obvious in the growing dusk, but their eyes always obvious and glowing yellow, blue and red. 

Then, the moment they are out of Beacon Hills, the shapes are gone. 

Wednesday relaxes in his passenger seat. 

“Perun is a reasonable fellow,” Wednesday says in lieu of explanation. “But his beasts aren’t.”

“What is Derek?” Shadow asks, looking at the road ahead. 

“A wolf in sheep’s wool, a skinchanger. The whole lot of them,” Wednesday replies. 

Shadow realizes, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that he’d just had lunch with a pack of werewolves. Shadow, albeit belatedly, realizes werewolves are real.

Wednesday says, “Their people masks are quite convincing. You should be proud. You get to tell the tale that you went into a wolf’s den and survived. Take the exit here.”

Shadow, unable to do anything else but push forward, flips the signal and turn right, into road 87.


End file.
